Been Here Before
by Lake of Rage
Summary: He had been here before. Men swarming through the door, pointing guns at him and his family, fear and anger bubbling up in his chest. Two words in the air; in his mind. Targent. Azran. But he isn't a kid anymore, and, this time, he'll keep his wife and daughter safe. He will. SPOILERS FOR THE PREQUEL TRILOGY.


_So I was taking requests on my Professor Layton sideblog, aggressivepuzzlesolving, and the very first one I got was for "the night Desmond Sycamore lost his family", so honestly y'all can't blame me for this. Blame my tumblr followers. Anyway, I already wrote a oneshot about the abductions of the Bronevs (*cough cough* it's called **You'll See Me Again** *cough cough* shameless self-promotion *cough cough*), so I took a somehow even angstier route for this prompt._

 _With all that out of the way... are you sitting? Good, cause it's time to (stop, drop, and) roll._

* * *

 **Been Here Before**

He had been here before.

He'd been young: barely old enough to understand what was happening. Besides, he hadn't been paying much attention at the time. Men in dark suits, talk of his father's archaeological work, and two words― _Targent, Azran_ ―were all he could very well remember. Desmond (Hershel, then) had squeezed his eyes shut tight and squeezed his brother tighter, choosing to be unaware as the adults screamed at each other and Theodore (Hershel, now) bawled into his jumper.

Every night for months afterwards, he'd relived it, and every night he would awake with a yell halfway out of his mouth, eyes wide, adrenaline thrumming in his throat. Just Theodore trembling in his arms, and his parents shouting in alarm as they were dragged away, and _Azran, Targent._

But that was then, and this was now. Now he was Professor Desmond Sycamore, renowned archaeologist. Professor Desmond Sycamore, faithful husband. Professor Desmond Sycamore, doting father.

He knew that, yet here he was again, surrounded by dark suits and talk of archaeology and _Targent, Azran._

Theodore (Hershel, now) was back in his arms; that's how he knew it was a dream. This didn't feel like a dream, though. Because his parents were gone, and Cecilia had taken their place.

He had been here before, too. Since the marriage, he'd been here at least once a week, watching his parents vanish forever and then watching his wife follow suit. This time, though, she wasn't already in their grip while he was helpless to do anything about it. Instead, she was behind him, staring over his shoulder at the men who'd flooded their kitchen.

He wasn't a child again, as he often was in these dreams; he was just as large as he had been when he fell asleep. He would be grateful, but that somehow made everything seem that much more real, and that much more dangerous.

This wasn't real, though. He knew, even though his chest was heaving with each breath. Even though his arm ached where he'd been holding it in front of Cecilia, a physical barrier between her and Targent. Even though he could smell the earthy aroma wafting in through the open front door. This was a dream. The most vivid dream he'd ever had.

He knew, because Theodore was back in his arms.

He knew, because he had finally let go of that day; he had finally let go of _Azran, Targent, Targent, Azran._

He knew, because the man in front of him, dark suit and all, looked and spoke and walked and _smelled_ like―

"Hello, Hershel."

It had started out as such a pleasant dream. Brisk autumn mornings like these were Marie's favorites, and her enthusiasm was infectious. Desmond had finished his latest paper a few days early, so he had plenty of free time; her face lit up when he offered to go outside with her.

She pretended to be upset when he made her rake the leaves in the yard into a perfect pile. In return, he pretended to scold her when she immediately leaped into the pile, scattering the leaves all over again. Laughing, she ran, and he chased her through the yard, catching her around the middle and swinging her through the air.

At some point, she started throwing big handfuls of leaves at him. Before he knew it, Cecilia was running outside they were ganging up on him, piling so many leaves onto him that he was barely visible. When they went back inside, still laughing, there was milk already simmering on the stove, and he made the hot chocolate while Cecilia helped Marie change her clothes.

Supper was uneventful, at first. He spent more time trying to explain why leaves change color in autumn than he did actually eating, but the delighted curiosity on his daughter's face was well worth it. Dark fell early, and they watched the sun set through the window in the dining room.

They didn't see anyone walk up the drive, even though they were looking right through the window. Still, he didn't question it when someone knocked at the door.

…In all honestly, he had been here before, too. Enjoying dinner in the dark, hearing a knock on the door, watching Theodore (Marie, now) eagerly volunteer. But he'd known― thought― that it was just his paranoia making the hair rise on the back of his neck. So he'd nodded and allowed his daughter to stand on her tiptoes and turn the knob.

This was where the dream got creative. Because Marie didn't go flying back and hit the wall. She didn't even lean through the door, squinting into the darkness. She just screamed, so loud and high that Desmond jumped, fork slipping from his grip and clattering onto his plate. Spinning around, she'd ran away from the door, leaving it open, and /they/ had shambled in, guns in their hands, led by none other than―

"Marie!" he remembered yelling, even though he knew at this point that this was just another nightmare. In a few hasty strides, he inserted himself firmly between her and the men, swiftly lifting her into his arms, and…

…oh.

Right.

It wasn't Theodore clinging to his sweater, sobbing into the absorbent wool. It was Marie.

"Desmond," Cecilia muttered as she gently grabbed his sleeve, voice and hands shaking but otherwise composed. "What's going on?"

A single dry laugh; he flinched despite himself. "So you really are going by that name nowadays," the apparent leader spat. "I hoped you might keep at least _part_ of your family, but I guess that was wishful thinking."

He sucked in a breath sharply enough to make his ribs hurt, shoulders stiffening. "You―" he gasped, stumbling back half a step.

"What's wrong, _Hershel?"_ the man ground out, and he fought hard not to flinch. "You didn't think you could abandon your family without _consequences_ , did you?"

Cecilia's hand came to rest on his shoulder, and he did flinch this time. "Desmond?" she whispered softly, sounding so confused and upset―

But he couldn't have responded even if he thought she would like the answer, because standing right in front of him, alive, but dressed in the dark Targent suit he knew and hated, was―

"Daddy," Marie whimpered, "I'm scared! Make them go away, daddy!"

Clenching his teeth, Desmond took a full step back this time, holding his daughter with one hand and using the other to usher Cecilia back as well. "You can't be here," he choked out, chest still tight, heart still racing.

This time, he was prepared for the snort, but he still felt goosebumps raise under his sleeves. He remembered soft, warm laughter, not this harsh mockery. "Where are your _manners?"_ this new man sneered. "I taught you to respect your parents, _Hershel."_

God―that had to be deliberate―the man (a manifestation of his subconscious, because _this was a dream_ ) was trying to get a rise out of him, and it was working. He tried to force a breath down his petrified windpipe, pressing Marie to his chest as if to shield her from this conversation. God, he had never planned for his past catching up to him; and now in front of Cecilia and Marie―not his wife and daughter; anyone else. He didn't want this for them.

"Desmond. Listen to me." Cecilia, he recognized vaguely; her voice was low and urgent. "Whoever you are―whoever you used to be―you'll still be my husband," she said, hand sliding from his shoulder to rest on his back. "Don't let him get to you."

Desmond wanted to scream; what could he possibly have done to deserve her? When had he become the luckiest man on earth? She was everything he could hope for, even when he wasn't dreaming like he _was right now_. He breathed deeply; Marie pressed her forehead into the crook of his neck. "You're dead," he said, wishing for all the world that his voice wasn't so weak; that _he_ wasn't so weak.

A scoff. "You wish."

(He did wish, now.)

Cecilia's voice was stronger than his, and, for that, he was thankful. "I don't know _who_ you think you are," she said firmly, eyes narrowing, "but you need to leave _immediately."_

"Do you even know who the man you're defending is?" said―

She wouldn't listen. He knew she wouldn't. But that didn't stop his neck from tensing as he winced, waiting with bated breath.

Cecilia's nostrils flared.

"He's my husband," she said, so sure of herself that Desmond nearly sobbed.

"He's a fabrication." Why wouldn't his subconsciousness shut up?

"He's the _father_ of my _child."_ He got the idea, couldn't they just get it over with already?

"And who's to say Hershel won't turn out just like _his_ father?" God, just stop.

"His name. Is _Desmond."_

One of the Targent men cleared his throat. Immediately, Desmond swept in front of Cecilia, twisting his body strategically to block both her and Marie from sight. "Boss," the agent said uncomfortably. "What about…?"

Mahogany eyes narrowed behind half-tinted sunglasses. After a moment, he nodded briskly, and, maybe he should have flinched, but Desmond just glared as the many guns in the room all came to rest on him. Cecilia gasped, and Marie mewled in kind.

"You know what I want, Hershel." He bristled― _Desmond, Desmond_ ―and tightened his grip on Marie's sleeve. "Join Targent or face the consequences."

He hadn't thought they'd go through with it.

He hadn't thought they'd be so quick.

He'd thought he would have more time.

He said, "No."

But, of course, this was Targent, and they had a personal vendetta. They were searching for any reason to hurt him. They would take any chance they got. So, with a gesture of gloved hands, they swarmed him, their guns held against him to assure he stayed still.

He had been here before.

Same stage, same scene, different actors.

Cecilia was gone first. Her hand slipped from his all-too-easily, and he lunged, but arms were tight around his chest, holding him back. He shouted inarticulately, thrashing in their hold; straining to reach his wife. She snarled at them―fearfully, angrily―as they forced her to her knees, twisting her wrists behind her back.

A gun pressed tight to her back, slotting between her shoulder blades, and she choked, doubling over. "Cecilia!" he screamed, but he couldn't hit the men holding him―both of his arms were wrapped tight against Marie, shielding her from reaching hands. Her eyes met his, and she opened her mouth desperately, lips moving―

 _Bang._

Marie screamed once.

 _"Daddy!"_

Only once.

Desmond screamed twice.

 _ **"No!"**_

A drop of blood slid down his cheek.

 ** _"CECILIA!"_**

Only twice.

She crumpled, eyes blank, and he sobbed, still squirming against the Targent men. The world blurred.

Marie wailed, and his hand went to the back of her head, holding it firmly to his collar. "Shh, shh, close your eyes, shhh," he choked out, rocking back and forth. "It's all a dream, baby. It's just a bad dream. You're gonna wake up soon, okay? Shhh…"

Cleated boots rammed into the backs of his knees, and he toppled. Before he could hit the ground, fists grabbed the back of his sweater, hauling him back up into the air, and, before he knew it, his arms were being pried away and Marie was being torn out of them.

 _"No!"_ he bellowed, barely audible over the sound of his daughter crying. God, his arms were still twisted behind him, his legs still pressed to the tile; all he could do was _watch_ as they lifted her into the air, kicking and screaming. "Let go of her!"

Cecilia's blood was still on the gun as it brushed against Marie, and she screamed again. "Daddy!" she cried, tears running down her face. "Daddy, help!"

"No," he said again, voice a broken moan, breath coming in shivering heaves. "No, please―"

Familiar hands landed on his shoulders―a mockery of comfort; grip iron and restraining―and he jumped. "You can stop this, Hershel," a raspy voice whispered. The gun pressed tighter against Marie's body; it was almost bigger than her. Cecilia's blood stained her shirt. _'Wake up, wake up, wake up―'_

"Please!" he howled.

"You can stop this, Hershel," said―

 _"Yes!"_

He wheezed for breath, eyes wide and frantic.

"I'll do it!" he cried. "I'll join Targent! Please, I'll do anything―"

"Anything?"

"Yes!" he repeated. "Yes! Anything! Just please―"

 _Bang._

Desmond screamed once.

Only once.

The men let him go. He collapsed to the floor, palms hitting the tile (slick with sweat and something else). Shoes _clicked_ sharply behind him and fabric rustled. Once again, hands were on his shoulders.

"This isn't a dream, Hershel," his father said.

He stared.

The gun was still there. It was laying on the floor between them, its owner having dropped it to back away.

He had been here before.

But he was not a child anymore.

But he wasn't a husband anymore.

But he wasn't a father anymore.

He grabbed the gun.

* * *

 _I am so sorry._

 _I am legitimately so sorry._


End file.
